


Take him.

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4869527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke hands Fenris back to Danarius.</p><p>Rewrite of an old fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The pain of staring at the old version of this fic in my works was starting to overwhelm me so I deleted it. This version, unlike the old one, is in-character and (hopefully) accomplishes what it’s meant to accomplish. 
> 
> That being said, I've had a tough time getting a handle on it so this still feels very much like a second draft rather than anything approaching a finished work. However, I am incredibly impatient so I'm posting it anyway!

Fenris stands in the shadow of the Hanged Man, preoccupied.

It’s midday, or just past. Hawke is supposed to meet him here. He spent some time watching the street, scanning the passers-by as if Hawke’s six and a half feet wouldn’t be immediately evident in any crowd, but he at last had to settle himself with the fact that Hawke is late.

And Fenris is reluctant to go in alone.

It’s hot out. The shadow he’s hiding in is thin and doesn’t offer much cover. He presses himself against the wall, folding his arms. The last time he saw Varania was in a  flash of memory three years ago, with Hawke’s skin close on his, a flash he no longer remembers. Although later he began to suspect that the memories were not true, or at least not all of them—that he’d recalled a moment here and there, and his scattered mind had filled in the rest with dreams.

Fenris curls his toes in the dust. He will wait for Hawke. He doesn’t want to do this by himself.

“There you are.”

Hawke materializes out of the crowd—not so evident after all, despite his size. “Sorry I’m late. Aveline needed to speak with me—urgent, couldn’t wait. But I’m here now.”

“Oh. Is everything all right?”

Hawke pauses, then he gives Fenris an easy smile. “Everything’s fine. Are you ready to go in?”

Fenris has known Hawke for seven years but that smile still catches him off-guard sometimes, and he quashes the flutter of attraction in his chest with annoyance. Now is not the time. “Yes. Let’s go.”

He pushes the door open.

The Hanged Man is perhaps two-thirds full at this time of day, the chatter more muted than raucous, the stench of spilled ale not quite so oppressive. Fenris hovers by the entrance and searches for an elf, a female elf—how old would she be? He hasn’t any idea—and out of the corner of his eye he sees Hawke scanning as well. Fenris's heart thuds in his throat. He didn't think he _could_ get more nervous, but it's not the first time he's been wrong. His sister. She wouldn’t have hair like his. Would she recognize him?

He finds a woman sitting alone at a table, staring at him. Her hair is a vibrant red.

The rest of the room falls away.

He remembers her when she’s younger and so is he. Their mother is there but not there, engaged in some other duty. The stone is warm under his bare feet, and ivy threads the pillars that surround them. The light breeze carries the scent of olives and smoke. Now he finds he has approached her, although he doesn’t remember doing so, and asks the trembling question— “Varania?”

He finds also she has drawn back. “I’m so sorry, Leto,” she whispers.

Something is wrong. He expects Hawke to call an alarm, to dash forward, to enact a quick escape for the both of them. Nothing of the kind happens. He glances over his shoulder and finds Hawke’s level gaze fixed at the back of the room—

“Fenris, my boy. So good to see you again.”

—where Danarius strides forward, flanked by bodyguards.

Fenris’s legs buckle with a shock of weakness, and he must grasp a chair for support. His gut bunches into a knot of terror, and sweat prickles on his back. Is this real, or something else? The metal tang of blood magic, worked into his mind? Or simply some dream born of his anxiety? Would it were false, that he did not have to face his old master again—

But he realizes Hawke is here as well, and he stands steady once more, his terror washed away by a welcome rage.  _“Danarius!”_

“It’s been too long.” Danarius is older now, but below the new wrinkles his face is still intimately familiar. His robes are uncharacteristically drab—the price of keeping a low profile, most likely. “I’ve traveled here to take you back. Do us all a favor and come quietly, would you? I’d hate for you to get hurt.”

Varania is backing away, and Fenris’s anger lashes out, eager for a target. “You!” he snarls at her. “You led him here!”

“Leto, please—“

“No need to be so cross. She only did as I asked.” Danarius sighs and addresses Hawke now. “Ser Hawke, isn’t that right? You’re his new master? He belonged to me once, and I would dearly like to have him back. I will, of course, compensate you for your loss.”

Hawke says nothing.

Fenris had been afraid of this moment. Afraid that seeing Danarius again would drag him back down into the mindset that trapped him as a slave, that needy adoration, where Danarius was his whole world and Fenris’s devotion reflected that. He is delighted to find that no such thing has happened. His world is much larger now. He bares his teeth in a something between a grin and a growl. “I have no master. And I certainly won’t—“

 _“Silence!”_ Danarius snaps.

Fenris flinches, cutting himself off reflexively.

Danarius’s lip curls in displeasure. A bad sign, Fenris thinks, that portends punishment later. But no. There will be no punishment. No one can do that to him anymore. Quickly he gauges the coming battle. Danarius and three bodyguards. No easy fight, then, with only he and Hawke here, but as long as he can hold their attention, he thinks Hawke will be able to kill them. He reaches for his sword hilt—

“Take him.”

What?

“He was yours once, you can have him back. I understand,” Hawke says. Then, with a faintly annoyed edge, “Although I do expect that compensation you mentioned.”

Danarius smiles. “Of course. Thank you for your courtesy.”

What is this? Some cruel joke? Some ruse? Fenris takes a half-step closer. “Hawke?“

Hawke turns to him. “Hm?”

Fenris had expected—something. Some intimation that this is a trick. Or some concern, or apology. There’s nothing like that. Hawke is relaxed and cool. “I—I thought—“ Fenris stammers.

Hawke frowns slightly. “You thought what?”

 _I thought you loved me._ Fenris is cast adrift. Did something change, these last years? Did—did he fail Hawke somehow, that compensation from Danarius (no doubt considerable in amount) has become a more attractive option than Fenris’s continued company? Fenris tries once more. “Please, Hawke.” His voice is small, ashamed. “I need you.”

There’s nothing. No flicker of regret, no hint of past affection. “Sorry, Fenris,” Hawke tells him. “You’re on your own.”

“Take this as a token of my gratitude.” Danarius approaches, hands Hawke a pouch of coins. “After I return to Tevinter, you shall be rendered payment in full.”

“Good.” Hawke pockets the pouch. “He’s all yours.”

 _No. Please don’t do this. Please don’t leave me with him._ Fenris lurches forward, then halts. Hawke watches him with mild curiosity, as if wondering what he’ll do next. There’s no option. He can’t defeat Danarius and three bodyguards, not without help. And they won’t kill him if he tries, they’ll just capture him and punish him for it later. Better to go without fighting. Better to save himself some pain.

“I…I will go,” he mutters.

Then Hawke leaves, and just like that he’s a slave again.

——

Fenris reflects it won’t make much of a difference.

It will to him, certainly. He will spend the next months being broken, no doubt, transformed into something meek and obedient, as he was before. But everything else will go on as it has. Donnic and Aveline will play Diamondback somewhere else, he supposes. Hawke might need to find a new sword-for-hire, or he might just ask Isabela’s help, she has skill at keeping her foes’ attention. Varric will have less debt to collect. Anders will spend less time arguing.

He has not mattered much here.

As they walk through Lowtown he keeps his head bowed, as if to conceal his face from passers-by. He was once a man to be feared, known for being (with Hawke) an enemy of injustice here—a dangerous enemy. But he has been defanged. His cheeks burn with shame, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the ground. Varania walks ahead, at Danarius’s side. Fenris wonders who she is, if the two of them are even related. Why did she do this to him?

Why did Hawke do this to him?

Hawke lies. Lies well, and lies a lot. Fenris has seen him at it a hundred times, and he never fails to impress. A few clever words, a well-placed smile or two, and enemies become friends, a fight becomes a mutual agreement. At least until the trap draws shut.

Which, Fenris supposes, it just has.

Hawke  _could_  do it, then. Could deceive him all these years, and Fenris would be none the wiser. But that doesn’t answer the question.

Why?

Perhaps he was angry that Fenris has refused to come back to him, after their one night together three years ago. Perhaps Fenris’s staunch support of the Circles had begun to abrade him. Perhaps he was afraid Fenris would turn on Anders, whom Hawke cares for very deeply (unless that’s a lie too, Fenris thinks with some bitter amusement, and who would know?). So yes, there are reasons.

But Fenris thinks of the closeness they’ve shared—not the sex, but in the time since. Hawke knows him better than anyone, has visited him many evenings for no other reason than to sit with him in front of the fire as they sip from a bottle of wine. Much of their time they spent laughing, but Fenris also has spoken with him about things he’s never revealed to anyone else, dark parts of his past he couldn’t bear to hold inside himself anymore. He’d talk about how there were times he thought shame would suffocate him, or would describe the acid taste of bile mixed with blood in his mouth, and Hawke’s face would break open in the flickering firelight. But there was love there, always, and that was what helped him heal.

He supposes he will be alone again now, with plenty more unpleasant events to fill his head and crowd out the memories of the life he’d built in Kirkwall. Then again, that might be a good thing, since Hawke was so deeply intertwined with all of that, and Hawke betrayed him. Poison. It’s all poison. He has had no true happiness, and now never will again.

A great shadow falls across him. He glances up. The arch of the city gates. They’re leaving Kirkwall. It doesn’t matter. Just as his master once fooled him into thinking he was loved, so Kirkwall did the same. There are a number of wagons here, merchants selling their wares to travelers, farmers whose goods are undergoing inspection before they’re allowed entry, several carriages-for-hire. One of the bodyguards drags Fenris aside as a cart piled with empty crates starts trundling down the road, drawn by a tawny nag. There’s a girl of perhaps twelve sitting beside the haggard driver, and her eyes linger briefly on Fenris. For a moment he thinks of breaking free of the bodyguard, of begging her for help. Anything to escape the awful shell of a life that awaits him.

Then the cart rolls away, and the moment vanishes.

A little down the road a carriage awaits—a rather large one, made to hold over a dozen people. The bodyguard herds Fenris inside. He thinks briefly of asking where they’re going and decides not to. Not worth what Danarius might do to him for it. Inside, the wagon is spare, the wooden benches without even cushions. Danarius sits across from him with no complaint. As a magister, he does of course appreciate the finer things, but he’s been to Seheron with Fenris, has spent long weeks in the jungle forts. A hard wooden bench is no great inconvenience.

Fenris wonders when it will begin. Wonders when Danarius will start hurting him. He is, of course, a warrior, and no stranger to pain. But during battle he can defend himself, and here resistance will be punished further. He may, of course, choose not to resist.

Which is exactly the reaction Danarius hopes to evoke.

Danarius is an extremely powerful blood mage, and he will only have grown stronger in the years since they’ve been apart. Escape will not be possible with him near. But Fenris  _must_ escape. He is afraid Danarius will succeed, will strip him of all the progress he’s made—under false pretense, apparently, but it is progress nonetheless. And he will become once more devoted, adoring, eminently obedient.

He realizes Danarius is gazing at him from across the cabin and flinches, fingers digging into his thighs. He  _must_  escape.

The ride is silent and not very long—perhaps half an hour. Through the window in the rear doors Fenris watches Kirkwall fade into the distance, then disappear around a stand of trees. In scattered moments he misses it with desperate terror, only to remember it was false, as false as Danarius's kindness ever was, and he leans once more against the wooden wall that jolts at his back. Eventually they draw into a town, one of the smaller settlements that ring Kirkwall, and the carriage stops.

Danarius has rented lodgings here—rustic, but certainly better than the military accommodations Fenris remembers from Seheron. The room is cramped but clean, and there’s a fourth bodyguard sitting at a table, playing some card game by himself. Two elven girls stand by the wall, one perhaps fourteen, the other a little older. Slaves. Danarius always bought new slaves young, so he would have time to mold their minds to a satisfactory standard of obedience.

The door creaks shut.

Fenris cringes, hunching his shoulders. But he catches himself at it and straightens. He will not be made to cower, not yet. Two of the bodyguards have come in, but the third is gone, and Varania as well.

Danarius stands by the door. “Fenris, take off that armor.”

Fenris stays just as he is. Anger glows in the pit of his stomach.

Danarius narrows his eyes. “Do it. Unless you’d rather I ask my men to take it off for you.”

“I’d  _rather_  rip out your heart and crush it under my heel,” Fenris replies. How satisfying that would be. But he simply isn’t fast enough—the lyrium takes time to invoke.

Danarius approaches and slaps him.

An open palm across the face. It doesn’t particularly hurt but for the heavy gold ring he wears on his second finger. Fenris’s face whips to the side, and he feels the burn of opened skin on his cheek. He tightens his jaw in shame, unable to retaliate. He was already stupid to say that. Retaliation will only make things worse.

“If that’s the way you’d like things to go.” Danarius beckons. “Vera, put your hand on the table. Your left.”

The older girl steps forward and obeys without hesitation.

“Marcus, cut off her hand.”

Fenris shouts at the same time as the younger girl screams and lunges forward. The bodyguard grasps Vera’s wrist. She does not struggle, only fixes her master with a pleading look.

“Stop this!” Fenris whirls to face Danarius. “You don’t have to hurt her!”

“Did you just give me an order?” Danarius hisses.

The man’s shortsword scrapes from its sheath. The younger girl is pressed against the wall, her fingers clasped over her mouth. Fenris takes a split-second to swallow his pride and tries again.  _“Please._  I’ll do as you say. But please don’t hurt her.”

Danarius only watches him, impassive. The seconds pass. One. Two. Three.

The  _thunk_  of metal into wood, and a hoarse, drawn-out scream.

Fenris stares, the anger in his gut gone to ashy guilt. It was he who did that, he and his useless defiance. Vera clutches the severed end of her arm, which issues great gouts of blood. Danarius gestures, and fire spins out of the air and wraps up the stump. She screams again, louder, and the acrid scent of charred flesh fills the room; but the flow of blood is not so fast now. Her hand lies dead on the table.

Danarius turns.  _“Take off your armor.”_

Fenris obeys with haste. His fingers tremble as he undoes the buckles, afraid he won’t be fast enough and the girl will lose another hand for it. The scalloped breastplate crashes to the floor, and the spaulders, and the gauntlets.

He stands there in his clothes, vulnerable, waiting. To his left Vera sobs and sobs.

Danarius reaches out and strokes Fenris’s face.

It isn’t gentle (not like Hawke) but authoritative, his fingers indenting the skin, prying apart the cut he made with his ring. “Hm,” he grunts. “A good thing you don’t scar.”

Fenris stays perfectly still. Disgust crawls like a cloud of spiders over his skin, and he must force himself not to shiver. Most of it is directed at Danarius, of course. But there are little accusing whispers in his ear.  _You are becoming his again. You are giving yourself back to him._ No. It isn’t true. He is only enduring, until the chance for escape arises.

Then Danarius steps back and sighs brusquely. “Marcus, take off her other hand.”

Vera lets out a despairing wail. Fenris takes a stuttering half-step toward her and freezes, lest his actions be seen as insubordination. Instead he turns to Danarius, desperate. “Please don’t hurt her! Please—I was the one who ran, she’s done nothing!”

The bodyguard grasps Vera’s wrist and presses her one remaining hand to the table. Her body shudders with great sobs. The younger girl, in a gesture that openly invites Danarius’s wrath, is grasping the back of Vera’s dress as if for comfort.

Again Danarius only watches, silent.

Not enough. Fenris knows what his master wants, and the only obstacle now is whether he can bring himself to do it. When he speaks the shame nearly smothers the words, and he thinks at first they are not loud enough to be heard over Vera’s crying. “Please punish me instead.”

Danarius raises a hand. The bodyguard’s still-bloody shortsword stops in the air, raised high over the girl’s outstretched arm.

It worked. Fenris relaxes for a half-second before he remembers what he’s just done, what he’s just submitted himself to. He feels the hatred rising up his throat but keeps his expression neutral so as not to make things worse than they already are.

“Release her,” Danarius commands. “Bring me the ward.”

Vera gasps in relief, hugging her intact arm to her chest as the bodyguard lets her go and starts searching in the heavy bags by the bed.

“Regrettably, I have other business to attend to before we return to Tevinter,” Danarius says. “But I will not neglect your punishment. You will remember I rarely used spirit energy in battle when I owned you before, after we discovered what it did to your brands.”

Spirit energy. A difficult magic to manipulate, and one that had a nasty effect on the lyrium; even the merest brush could spark a deep, burning pain that endured for hours, and a more powerful dose would leave Fenris sick and shaking, useless for any task of import. It was never used by the Qunari or any of the Seheron factions, and so Fenris was safe from it, for the most part. In Kirkwall he has been careful to avoid it, and when it caught him anyway he could usually manage to hold himself together long enough to get away from Hawke and the others, so they wouldn’t find out what happened.

The bodyguard hands Danarius a small statue in veridium, carved in some arcane shape. “A recent project of mine.” He lifts the statue, and it gleams in the sunlight from the window. “A ward, meant to keep away demons away from a mage’s mind while they are sleeping. Right now it repels only the weakest of demons, and it also unfortunately bestows rather unpleasant dreams. But my experiments have shown promise. The device works by emitting waves of spirit energy powerful enough to reach beyond the Veil.”

_Venhedis._

“It is fully charged at the moment.” Danarius smiles at him. “I expect it will function for some hours yet.”

He makes some small gesture, and Fenris doubles over.

 _Pain,_  that’s the first thing he feels, as the lyrium burn flares and penetrates deep into his muscles, soaking into the bone. This is strong magic, and he’s right in the middle of it. His strength goes next, and he falls, must catch himself on an outstretched arm as he kneels on the floor. He is sick,  _sick,_ his stomach curdling, his head throbbing.

Faintly he hears Danarius speaking to the bodyguard. “If he does anything out of the ordinary, kill one of the girls. I don’t care which.”

Fenris blinks, his eyes sheened with tears. Drab robes bunch on the floor in front of him as Danarius crouches. “If you behave yourself, maybe I won’t have to cut off Vera’s other hand when I return.”

Fenris nods, too nauseous to speak. Fine. Fine. He’ll behave.

Danarius places the ward on the table beside Vera’s severed hand. “I will be back before nightfall. Marcus, Varania is across the hall should any problems arise.”

Varania belongs to them too. He has no friends here. Fenris turns his face into his arm and tries not to throw up.

Then Danarius is gone, the door swinging shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris sits against the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest.

He is sick. He has never been this sick. The throbbing in his head threatens to shatter him apart with every pulse. He has not thrown up, at least, only gagged a few times. The nausea is unceasing. His stomach hurts.

The markings hurt.

They are glowing bright and have not stopped since the ward was activated. The pain has spread now, his whole body submerged in it. The lyrium is a white-hot brand pressed to his skin that never cools. He is weak, too, weak as a child, and even the smallest movement is extremely difficult. After this treatment, he will be in no condition to escape for some time. A full day, he suspects, or perhaps more. The energy swills around him as a restless sea, inflaming his markings with each passing current, each fitful eddy.

Maybe it will kill him. Would that be the worst outcome? Then again, Danarius  may order the girls’ executions afterwards out of spite.

The younger girl has torn a strip from her dress and wrapped Vera’s cauterized stump. (The ruining of the dress will cost her some punishment, no doubt.) Now and then one or both of them look up at Fenris with terrified eyes. He is their arbiter, it seems. He decides whether they lose limbs, or whether they’ll be killed.

Danarius isn’t here and still he’s made escape impossible. Something to be strenuously avoided, even. Fenris takes a deep breath to hold down a swell of bile. There isn’t any hope. He will be controlled, with a firm hand until such intervention is no longer necessary and he has learned to yield, until surrender has become so integral to him he no longer remembers the worth of fighting back.

In Seheron, after he escaped, fighting back was a revelation. It was a choice he had never made before—never even considered; Danarius was his benefactor, took care of him. To resist would have been incredibly ungrateful, and he would never think to do that to the master who devoted to him so much time and attention. But living with the Fog Warriors changed all that. It was the ability to fight back that saved him, that turned him into the man he was—revealed the truth of his character, beneath the twisted adoration Danarius used to smother him. And now that ability will be crushed into nothing.  _He_  will be crushed. A slave, again.

It isn’t fair.

His limbs feel flaccid and numb. Odd, since they also hurt, as if his bones are burning and the heat sears his flesh, poisons it with black smoke. He doesn’t deserve this. Not that it matters; it will happen anyway. There is no one to help him. Hawke doesn’t care—Hawke put him here. And he has the others in his pocket, he and his damned charisma. He will lie to them, and they will believe him. No one is coming.

Through the window panes, rays of sun splash orange on the floor, inching across the room as the afternoon wears on.

He is alone.

Quiet crying from the corner of the room. Not quite alone, true. Instead there are two elven girls whose lives balance on the degree of his obsequiousness. The entire situation is revolting, and he cannot escape it, can only play along and pray Danarius’s mood is light enough to allow Vera to keep her one remaining hand.

The bodyguard plays cards. He isn’t even watching Fenris. Doesn’t need to, really. In the time it took Fenris to crawl to the door, the guard could kill both girls and still finish his game at leisure.

He presses a hand to his mouth as his stomach turns over. But no, he keeps the bile down. There isn’t any point in resisting. What will it accomplish? Why not obey, and bypass the hard breaking? He is owned again. Resistance might give him a few transient moments of pride, but it will be met with swift pain and humiliation. Better to give in. It will be difficult at first, but he may yet be proud again later, if Danarius decides to favor him once more. It will mean that at least he has some value, to someone.

As he never did to Hawke.

The door opens, at the edge of Fenris’s vision. “We’ll depart in the morning. I’ve left them outside of town so as not to raise any eyebrows.”

The guard jolts to his feet. “Er—yes, my lord.”

Danarius sweeps in, alone this time, his men assigned to some other task. “Any problems while I was away?”

“No, my lord, nothing.”

“Hm.”

Fenris manages to lift his eyes and finds Danarius’s gaze is on him. Slowly he forces words from his burning lips. “Please. Don’t hurt them.”

“Don’t hurt them, you say?” Danarius replies. “Then what should I do instead?”

Fenris is already speaking when the thought of resistance occurs to him, but it is no more than a flicker, and dies quickly. “Hurt. Me.”

Danarius lowers himself to one knee.

This time when he strokes Fenris’s face it is gentle, caring  _(almost_ , almost). “I’m not going to hurt you again tonight. You’ve already endured so much.”

Fenris nearly sobs with relief. Already he feels as if his body, left so long steeped in the lyrium burn, has dissolved in it. Then the spirit energy washes out of the room, the ward deactivated. The pain dims, if not much, but it’s far better than what he’d expected, and confused, undirected gratitude floods his mind. Danarius still holds his face, and Fenris reaches out with one trembling hand, grasps at Danarius’s robes—

The self-disgust burns vile and hot in his throat. He ignores it, pushes it down. It won’t help him.

“I’ve missed you, you know,” Danarius says. “Very much. You were very precious to me.”

Fenris reflects that he will be well-treated, at least. Given fine clothes, adequate food, few tasks but to defend his master against danger. And as a favored slave, the magisters will not see him (like they see so many other slaves) as some inferior creature to be crushed underfoot. It could be much worse.  

At least he is aware that Danarius does not love him.

“I—I’m sorry—“ His body still shakes, and the words shiver out of him.

“For what?” Danarius asks.

“For.” He takes a breath. “For running.”

“Fenris…” Danarius strokes his hair, grasps his arm— _hurts,_ his skin still burning from that awful ward— “Forget all that. You are with me again.”

Fenris nods. That’s the simple truth of it. How things will be, for years to come. Strange how easily Kirkwall falls away, when he’s confronted with the arc of his own life, the inevitability of it all. Stupid to think he could escape. Stupid to think he could be anything more than what Danarius made of him.

The door bursts open. “You are under arrest for the illegal—“

Danarius whirls, and Aveline grunts as the blast of force slams into her shield and pushes her back. A bloom of fire appears in front of her, surging toward Danarius, but he counters it with a curt wave of his hand.

Fenris is for a moment confused. What’s happening? This can’t be real—surely he’s imagining it? He glances over, expecting the bodyguard to rush to Danarius’s defense, only to discover the bodyguard’s throat is slit open and Hawke is in the room, having somehow fit his hulking body through the window. He kicks the table over, and Fenris thinks he’s going to use it as cover—but he goes straight for Danarius instead. Then why—

Ah. The two girls. The cover is for them.

Aveline is through the doorway now, advancing. Danarius doesn’t bother moving, only casts another spell. A great band of electricity fills the room with flashes of light. Aveline shouts in pain, and there’s a grunt from Hawke as he staggers. A third cry, from beyond the door. Anders. Fenris watches Danarius’s focus narrow in—as does Aveline, and she rushes back, planting herself in front of Anders just in time to shield him from a violent explosion of flame that cracks the doorframe.

She does not advance again, and must have been injured—or Anders was, and she stays to protect him. Instead Hawke darts in. Danarius’s hands weave in the elegant, masterful way Fenris remembers so well, and the air crackles as lightning seethes forward. Fenris knows Hawke, knows how quick he is and where he’ll go to escape the spell.

But he doesn’t—tacks the wrong way, and it wraps him up. Another grunt of pain, and he turns the fall into a roll, dodges the next bolt of electricity. He’s hurt, Fenris can see that much, and isn’t surprised. Danarius’s magical ability is formidable. So why isn’t Hawke using all the space available to him and dodging like he should be?

Because he’s keeping Danarius facing him, facing the far wall. With his back exposed to Fenris.

The residual effects of the spirit energy have not left him yet, and he knows there is no strength in his limbs, yet he rises anyway, feeling as if he is made of air, the trembling of his body no more than a breeze that rushes through him. The lyrium takes his arm as Hawke shouts in agony. Not so restrained now. The next hit will kill him, if the last one did not do it already.

Fenris jams his arm through Danarius’s back.

“Uh—“ An ugly sound for such an elegant man. Fenris releases the lyrium, and his once-master’s ribs crack around his newly solid forearm, the thick muscle of the heart sheared away. The sensation of flesh and fragmented bone against his skin disgusts him suddenly, and he yanks his arm out.

Danarius crumples, blood pooling on the floor, dripping through the wooden boards.

Aveline sheathes her sword and approaches. “Fenris, are you all right?”

Not particularly. His shaking legs fail him, and he buckles, catching himself on the bed. “What—what happened? Why did you come back?”

She frowns. “That was the plan—you go with Danarius, we tail him when he picks up…” But met with his confusion her face opens in horror, and she spins. “Hawke, you didn’t  _tell him?”_

Hawke sits slumped against the wall, clutching his chest. Anders comes forward, but Hawke waves him off. “Fenris. Help Fenris.”

“I am fine. One of these girls has had her hand cut off and the wound burned closed.” Fenris jerks his head at the flipped-over table. “She needs you.”

“Shit,” Anders mutters, and goes to the table, pushing it aside.

“Hawke,” Aveline says sharply. “You said you would  _ask_   _him_. You said you’d only do it if he agreed.”

“I know what I said.” Hawke stands slowly, using the wall for support. “But Danarius might have picked up on the deception. This was safer.”

“Not for him!”

“No. For the others.”

“What others?” Fenris interjects.

Aveline sighs. “The city guard gets tips all the time. Most of them are too small to be of any use, and come to nothing. But sometimes we can connect them.”

Fenris lowers himself to the bed, folding his legs up so Danarius’s blood will not spread onto his toes.

“We knew there was a man, a foreigner who’d rented out a room at the Hanged Man,” Aveline continues. “ _I_ knew a woman matching your sister’s description had been seen on a ship to Kirkwall. Early this morning we found out that a Tevinter was here buying slaves—someone with a lot of money, who wanted to inspect his purchases personally. That didn’t make sense. Why go to the Marches black market when you have enough coin to buy slaves in Tevinter, where it’s legal? Now, normally we’re too late on these kinds of tips—deals are done quickly so they can’t be traced back, and the safehouses aren’t compromised. But the Tevinter wanted this group held for him, fed and housed for as long as it took for him to come by and get them. The whole thing was strange, so I visited Hawke this morning to ask if he had any insight.

“He said you’d told him you heard from your sister. That she would be waiting for you at the Hanged Man. That’s when we put it together.” Aveline glances back at Hawke, who still leans against the wall, his eyes cast down. “Danarius was in Kirkwall. He was using your sister to draw you out. While he was in the area he decided to buy himself some slaves, only he needed to wait for you to take the bait, and he didn’t want to have to deal with them in the meantime. So he contracted the slavers to do it instead.

“The plan was Hawke’s. You go with Danarius. We put a tail on him so when he heads to the safehouse, we’ll learn where it is. He’s a magister and our forces our limited, so we wait until he leaves to raid the safehouse for the remaining captives—fewer casualties that way. Donnic’s organizing that part of it. Meanwhile, we take a small contingent with us and follow Danarius at a distance, wait until he sends his thugs off with the people he’s just bought. My guardsmen pursue. And while they’re doing that, the three of us keep on him until he leads us to you. And then we kill him. Only…” Aveline glares at Hawke. “Hawke said he would  _ask_  you. This isn’t something you should walk into unawares. But you didn’t know, so—what did he do instead? Did he just…”

“He handed me over,” Fenris mumbles.

The room is silent. Anders is hunched in the corner with the two girls, their frightened faces illuminated by the white glow of healing magic. Fenris stares at the bedspread. A ruse. It was a ruse. So Hawke  _did_  lie to him, just…not in the way Fenris had thought.

Then Aveline crosses the room, grabs the front of Hawke’s armor, and slams him back against the wall. “How could you do that?!” Her hair is singed in the back, from that explosion of fire. “He’s your  _friend!_ This is— _unacceptable!”_

“I know,” Hawke murmurs. He makes no move to push her away. “But it was safer.”

Aveline steps back suddenly, as if disgusted with him. “The only reason I’m not slapping you right now is because I’ve still got my gauntlets on.” Her eyes are narrowed in anger. “Maybe I should anyway.”

“Can we—“ Fenris asks, “—go back?”

Aveline heaves a sigh. “Yes. I’ve just got to explain all this to…whoever’s in charge here. Hawke, with me.”

So he follows her out of the room, leaving Fenris there on the bed with Danarius’s corpse below him.

“Keep this covered for a week.” Anders is talking to Vera. “Try not to get it wet. But I think it’ll heal all right.”

She stares back at him, confused. Fenris translates the instructions into Tevene, and the girl nods, with a hesitant “thank you” in the King’s Tongue.

“You’re welcome.” Anders rises, rubbing his forehead. There’s a fat lump there, red and shiny. It’ll bruise before long. He must have knocked his head in that explosion. Then he turns to Fenris. “So. I know you  _said_  you’re fine, but…are you really fine, or do you need help?”

Fenris’s stomach still turns mutinously, and his hands shake on his lap. The weakness, too, may become a problem if he is to ride back to Kirkwall; he’ll fall off his horse a dozen times on the way. “I…perhaps,” he mutters.

Anders comes over, stepping gingerly over Danarius’s corpse. “Let me see what I can do.”

His fingertips begin to glow, a silver-white light radiating through his skin. But as soon as he touches Fenris the lyrium flares, as a fire stoked. Fenris shouts and flinches away. Anders jerks back, alarmed. “I—I’m sorry! I don’t know what I did!”

“No, it’s—“ He hugs himself. That hurt, and it still hurts. “It’s not you. Only the markings. They—don’t always react well with magic.”

“Oh.” Anders sits there for a long moment, his hands jammed between his knees. Then: “What Hawke did was—cold.” An awkward pause. “Sorry.”

“Thank you,” Fenris says dully.

They sit for a little while. Anders has apparently decided not to be abrasive tonight, and his company, despite the silence, is comforting. Fenris watches the two girls, who watch him back, unsure.

"It's all right," he tells them in Tevene. "You won't be hurt anymore."

The younger girl's eyes drop to Danarius's corpse.

Fenris had expected to feel something at this moment. Many times over the years he envisioned it, his hand plunging through Danarius's chest, and when he withdrew it it would drip with gore. (The gore is instead rather caked-on.) But those fantasies grew less and less frequent as time went on. When was the last time he thought of it? Danarius had become—inconsequential. A ghost of the past. Fenris feels nothing now—except for some gratitude that he could free these girls from any further torment.

"I should wash this off." He stands abruptly, only to waver on unsteady legs.

A hand snatches the back of his shirt to keep him from falling. "I should help," Anders says drily.

There's a pitcher in the washroom, half-full. Fenris scrubs his arm clean while Anders holds his other elbow and makes sure he doesn't topple over. He's just finished when Aveline pokes her head in. "We can go."

——

Fenris rides with Aveline. He is still weak, but this way he can hold her waist, and he’s less likely to slip off onto the road. The girl watching the horses looked familiar to Fenris, and he realized a moment later where he’d seen her—sitting beside the driver of that cart this afternoon, the one drawn by the tawny nag. She must have been one of those assigned to track Danarius’s movements. Vera and her companion were placed with the rest of the freed slaves. They will be treated with sensitivity and compassion. Aveline says they've dealt with situations like this before, and Fenris trusts her.

Hawke rides ahead of them.

His broad back is hunched beneath his cloak. Fenris watches him over Aveline's shoulder. How could he do that? How could he become that heartless entity Fenris saw in the Hanged Man, impassable and cruel? For a righteous purpose, true. And yet.

 _Does he truly care about me?_ Fenris wonders. Even if the answer is yes—if he would do that anyway… _does it matter?_

“I’m sorry,” Aveline says.

“You do not need to apologize,” Fenris replies. “You did nothing wrong.”

“It’s just—“ She exhales, frustrated. “I can’t believe he’d do that. I always thought of him as a—a kind man.”

“As did I. But perhaps…” Fenris gazes ahead, at the dark shape of Kirkwall against the twilight. “…he has changed some, over the years.”

“I suppose we all have,” she mutters. “How about you? Are you all right?”

He has settled with the deep burn, now diminished to manageable levels, and he knows his strength will return. “I expect I will be soon enough. Danarius…is dead. That should help.”

“You know, when I saw your hand stuck through his chest, I nearly shouted for joy. I’m glad you’re free of him, I really am. This means your old life is finished for good, isn’t it? Now all you have to worry about is the new one.”

She’s right. He’s free of it all, ten years later. “I think I will enjoy worrying about that.”

“If you ever need help, you only have to ask. Any of those snakes in Hightown try to overcharge you for food, or clothing, or furniture, let me know and I’ll give them a good talking-to.”

“Aveline…“ How should he say this? “Your friendship has meant more to me than I have told you. I—I do not know how to express my gratitude, except to thank you.”

“Fenris, you don’t have to thank me.” She smiles at him over her shoulder. “I know if I were being held in the clutches of some evil magister, you’d charge right in there and lop his head off, caution be damned.”

“I most certainly would.” Fenris smiles. “I’d even get to behead a magister in the bargain.”

Aveline laughs. “Don’t sound too excited. I’d actually rather avoid being kidnapped in the first place.”

“True. Kirkwall would suffer in your absence.”

“Oh yes it would,” she grumbles. “Seems I’m the only one with the mettle to manage the Hawkes of this world.”

She likely meant it as the Hawke they both knew once—well-intentioned but ill-starred, a great smiling bear of a man with trouble at his heels. But now the turn of phrase conjures in Fenris’s mind a shadow in the dark, a muted knife-gleam, a calculating eye. A cold-blooded killer. Which is true? Which is Hawke?

Perhaps they both are, Fenris muses. He watches Kirkwall approaching over Aveline’s shoulder as they ride through the summer evening.

——

He can almost walk on his own by the time they reach the city. Almost. Aveline helps him, holding his arm as if he is elderly and infirm. It’s mildly embarrassing, but less so than falling on his face in the middle of the street, he supposes.

Anders heads off to Darktown and leaves him with an offhanded comment about how if he needs help, he knows where to find it. Strange, considering before tonight, Fenris wouldn’t have put it past the mage to refuse him even if he showed up at the clinic mortally wounded with only minutes to live. But he thinks he trusts Anders’s offer, at least until this whole business with Danarius has faded from both their minds. That’s also strange, that he trusts Anders now more than he trusts Hawke. Hawke, who still walks ahead of them, hulking and dark.

The stairs up to Hightown, inconvenient on any other day, are tonight an obstacle that seems as insurmountable as the city walls themselves. For a brief moment Fenris expects Hawke to sweep him up in those powerful arms and ferry him up the steps, grinning all the way. But of course that will not happen. Instead Aveline slings his arm over her shoulders and holds his waist, and they climb together. He must still stop and rest a half-dozen times before the top. In these instances Hawke pauses a few yards away and waits, lingering, like a watchdog. Or a carrion bird.

At last they reach the top. “Almost there,” Aveline murmurs. Fenris nods, too exhausted to respond. Aveline’s breathing is a little brisk, but otherwise she seems unruffled, and she helps him forward. A few nobles are still about and about, passing by beneath the streetlamps, on their way to parties, or performances, or whatever it is nobles do with their time. Fenris watches them go, feeling extremely out of place. To live amongst all these people with enough money to do anything and everything they want, while only a few hours ago, he was someone else’s property.

“Fenris.”

They’re approaching the estate. Hawke has stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare, and the pools of lamplight on either side reach out to him but don’t quite get there. He stares at the cobbles. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

Fenris doesn’t know what to say. Beside him Aveline makes a noise of disapproval. But he needs to know—something. Needs to know how, or why. Needs to know the truth. “I…yes. You may.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Aveline says.

“No, but—thank you. Again.”

“Remember, if you ever need help, you only have to ask.”

She leaves them then, heading off into the night. Fenris finds he can indeed stand on his own, although it takes some concentration. He follows Hawke into the estate.

“Master Hawke! Welcome home—“

“Evening, Bodahn. You can turn in, I’ll handle things on my own tonight.” Hawke waves a hand, a gesture of dismissal.

“As you wish. I’ll see you in the morning.” The dwarf bows, then disappears into the main hall. Meanwhile, Hawke stands in the atrium, still staring at the ground. Fenris leans against the wall, needing the support.

“You don’t deserve what happened to you today,” Hawke says finally. “You’re a good man, and you’ve already been through far too much. So this—it wasn’t through any fault of yours. It was something I did to you. A decision I weighed and then made anyway. You deserve better. Much better.” He rubs his eyes. “There. That’s all I wanted to say. You don’t have to stay, I expect you never want to see me again.”

“You expect—you expect I never want to see you again? Of course I want to see you again!” The dull disbelief of the journey here is lifted now, in this dark atrium, and the anger beneath, exposed at last, roars high and bright. Fenris finds he is on the verge of shouting. “I wanted to be with you, Hawke!  _I loved you!”_

Hawke flinches, a flicker of—something there, an insinuation of pain, but then it’s gone and Fenris stops caring about it. “I’m sorry.”

“You told me the same, once. That you loved me. Fool that I was, I believed you.” A bitter sneer twists his lips. “Stupid to think it would stay that way. What was it, in the end, that made you want to do this to me? Was I not ready enough with my affections? Perhaps I should have let you fuck me again, then maybe we could have avoided all this—“

“Fenris—“ Hawke’s face draws tight with anguish. “Please don’t say that.”

“Then what was it?” Fenris barks. “Why, Hawke?  _Why?”_

“Nothing’s changed, Fenris, I still—Maker take me.” He exhales. “There isn’t any more to it than what I’ve already said. You heard the plan, it depended on Danarius thinking he had you. And he’s a magister, he knew you for a long time, I suspected he’d be able to tell if you knew it wasn’t a permanent arrangement.“

Fenris snorts. “Afraid my lies wouldn’t be good enough? Of course you thought that, I don’t have nearly as much experience as you.”

Hawke smiles softly. “Few do.”

“So that’s it, then? You claim you still love me, but you just—set it aside? Handed me over, figured you’d try for a finder’s fee while you were there? Stood by and watched me go off with the man who abused me for twelve years?” Fenris snaps. “This love of yours must be rather insubstantial, to be so easily dismissed!“

“No, it’s not—“ he pleads, then cuts himself off. “Fenris, you’re—you’re shaking.“ He takes an odd, lurching step forward, then halts, frozen.

Fenris starts to go to Hawke, desiring his touch; but he realizes what he’s doing, and jerks away, stumbling until his back hits the wall again. “It’s—Danarius. He did this to me.”

“I—I’m sorry—“

“Sorry, yes, you’ve said that. And you betrayed me anyway.”

Hawke’s face breaks open into an awful, jagged smile. “I don’t know what you expected. Isn’t this what happens? Isn’t this what always happens? I led my sister to her death. Had a chance to find the man who would kill my mother, couldn’t do that either. Failed to prevent the Qunari sacking Kirkwall, even though one of my best friends was at the root of it. Oh, and I tried to stop one of my other best friends from killing a girl in cold blood, but you saw how that turned out. And now this? Betraying the man I love? Isn’t that just—“ He breaks off, shakes his head. “Never mind. Forget it. Don’t listen to me.”

Fenris stands there, a shiver running through him, and doesn’t know what to say.

Hawke huddles at the opposite wall, a shamble of a man with his back turned to the flickering candlelight. Fenris realizes that Hawke has been lying to him for some time. Every “ _I’m fine”_  has been delivered unqualified, and yet plainly Hawke  _isn’t_ fine, and hasn’t been for a while. “How many were freed?” Fenris asks. “How many did Danarius buy?”

“A dozen. A dozen people,” Hawke mutters.

“And the safehouse? How many were held captive there?”

“I…I don’t know. From the size, perhaps another dozen.”

“So. More than twenty, let’s say. That’s how many you saved.”

“Yes.”

“It was the right decision,” Fenris says. “Danarius knows me well. Had you informed me of what you planned, I would have agreed to play my part. But it is not unlikely that he would have been able to extract from me the truth of the matter. It’s all right. I understand what you did.”

Hawke looks up, disbelieving. “Fenris—I handed you back to your old master. How can you— _understand_  that?”

Fenris crosses the atrium on trembling legs. Hawke’s back is to the wall, and he watches Fenris with fearful eyes.

Then Fenris grasps the front of Hawke’s armor and rises up on tiptoes—

—only to be pushed away and held there, albeit gently, Hawke grasping his shoulders. “What are you—“

“Do you love me?” Fenris says.

“Fenris—“

“Answer me, Hawke. Do you love me?”

Anguish breaches Hawke’s face, a dark shape in stormy waters. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Because I need to know!” Fenris is shaking again, and after that long trek up the stairs, now standing here without a wall to lean on, his legs begin to buckle. “I saw you at the Hanged Man! I saw you look at me as if I were some—minor annoyance, an unwanted thing whose best use was to be traded away—“

“No, Fenris, I—I love you, Maker, you mean everything to me _—“_

Fenris’s legs give at last, but Hawke catches him and draws him in.  _I love you._  Is that the truth of it? Fenris reaches up, pulls Hawke’s head down, and kisses him.

As ardent as it was the first time, and just as needed. Hawke’s arms wrap tight around his thin body, and he relaxes into them, breaking away for a breath only to kiss Hawke again, desperate for the reassurance that this is true and he is loved—

“Fenris, please—“ Hawke pulls back, and Fenris must stand on his own once more. “I can’t go any further than this tonight.”

Fenris had not intended any such thing, but he can see how the press of his body might have hinted at it. “No, I only—“ How to say this? He needs Hawke still, needs the closeness, to be reminded that the man he loves isn’t some trick he’s been playing on himself for the past seven years. “May I stay with you tonight?”

“Yes.”

Then Hawke pulls him in again, holding him close. All these years, Fenris wanted only this. Yet something at the back of his mind, some needle-toothed doubt, still asks him whether or not this is really true.

In Hawke’s room they disrobe and climb into bed. Fenris lies with Hawke at his back, one powerful arm wrapped around his middle, kisses pressed softly to his neck and shoulders.

He wakes several times during the night. Always to the warmth at his back, the weight of Hawke’s arm around his waist. Each time convinces him a little more.

——

They talk about it over breakfast.

Fenris cuts a slice of bread. His strength has not yet returned to its full capacity, but he does not tremble anymore. “So you could just—forget about it, for a while? That you cared for me?”

“I wouldn’t say I forgot.” Hawke plucks an apple from the bowl. “I think I sort of—caged it up, so it couldn’t get at me anymore. Then I could spin out a few good lies without any trouble.”

“Indeed,” Fenris mutters. “That is…a useful skill. This cage, as you describe it.”

“Maybe.” Hawke considers the apple, frowning. “I still hope I never have to bloody do it again.”

“As do I.” He reaches for the butter dish, then pauses. “Do you know…what happened to my sister? Danarius said she was in an adjacent room.”

“Your sister?” Hawke looks up. “We didn’t find her. Maybe she ran.”

Later that morning Fenris visits the barracks. When Aveline sees him standing in the threshold of her office, she tells him to come in and lock the door behind him. They talk at length. Fenris manages to persuade her not to punch Hawke in the mouth the next time she sees him, and by the time he leaves he even thinks they’ll speak again within the next month.

Things return to normal, relatively. Hawke solves problems and Fenris comes along. Anders is back to sniping at him, which is somehow just as comforting as that quiet moment they had after Danarius’s death. Isabela is their fourth for a while, although one day Aveline is there with Hawke when Fenris answers his door in the morning and she starts to accompany them again.

A few weeks after the incident, Hawke, in his customary fashion, is walking Fenris home. The long summer is drawing to an end, and the air is not so stifling—even pleasant, an evening breeze passing them by as they cross the Chantry square. When they reach the manor, Hawke lingers there on the doorstep, hesitant. At last he asks if Fenris would like to come by for dinner the next night.

Fenris thinks about it for a moment, then says yes.


End file.
